You open the door for me

but I don’t walk in until you do.

 

The waitress asks, separate or together?

I interrupt you and answer, separate.

 

You ask if I need to be picked up

but I insist I can drive myself.

 

The lightbulb in the living room

that is my         rib cage         is out

I stop you from replacing it.

 

A lack of appreciation for your gestures.

You should be tired.

I get it.

 

But if you’re to care for me—

then I’ll forget who I am.

You don’t get it.